


The 9:15 from Santa Cecilia

by FootlessData507



Series: Before Coco [2]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Pre-Canon, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FootlessData507/pseuds/FootlessData507
Summary: Imelda runs into someone on a train to Guadalajara.





	The 9:15 from Santa Cecilia

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up, this story makes reference to events in another one of my stories (In Don Alejandro's Cellar). I tried to make it stand on its own legs, but those who are curious should check that story out.
> 
> As always, I appreciate your feedback, particularly in regards to my Spanish.

            Imelda, Tía Natalia, Tío Lorenzo, and Cousin Luciana had arrived at the Santa Cecilia train station a full twenty minutes before the 9:15 train to Guadalajara was set to leave. Now it was 9:17, the train was on the tracks, and Tía Natalia’s goodbyes _still_ weren’t exhausted.

            “Now you be good for your Cousin Imelda, mija,” Tía Natalia ordered her daughter before planting a few last kisses on Luciana’s already amply kissed cheeks. “What is the rule?”

            Luciana rolled her eyes and squirmed out of her mother’s grasp. “Until we’re back in Santa Cecilia, what Imelda says goes,” she recited.

            Tío Lorenzo wandered off, spotting one of his friends in the distance. He had long since delivered his goodbyes.

            “If she tells you to do something, you do it,” Tía Natalia pointlessly elaborated. “If she tells you _not_ to do something, you _don’t_ do it. Entiendes?”

            “Si!” Luciana rolled her eyes again. “I understand!” She held out her hand to Imelda. “Can we go, now?”

            Imelda held her cousin’s hand and used her other hand to pick up their suitcase. She looked at the train only a few feet away. “Tía, we really should go.” Imelda didn’t know much about trains, but judging by the way the strange behemoth was clanging and smoking, it was probably leaving soon.

            “Si, lo sé…” Tía Natalia admitted. “I shouldn’t cry,” she remonstrated herself as she wiped some tears off her face. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, and it’s such a comfort knowing that a young woman with such a sensible head on her shoulders is taking care of my little Luciana.”

            Normally, Imelda would have appreciated the compliment. However, that train was getting louder, and somewhere a conductor was roaring, “All aboard!”

            “I’ll take good care of her,” Imelda assured her aunt. “But we need to go now.”

            Tía Natalia squeezed her daughter and her niece in one last rib-cracking hug and allowed them to board the train. They stood by the door, Tía Natalia only a few feet away from them.

            “Give my love to Dolores!” Tía Natalia ordered, yelling over the squeal of the train as it started rolling from the station.

            “We will!” Imelda called to her.

            “Luciana, don’t wander off from Imelda!” Natalia shouted, running alongside the train.

            “I won’t!” Luciana promised.

            “Don’t give her any trouble!” Natalia ordered. Now she had reached the end of the platform.

            “I won’t!” Luciana lied.

             “Adiós!” Imelda called. She wasn’t sure if Tía Natalia had heard her, because now she was barely discernable in the distance. The train had completely left Santa Cecilia’s station.

            Imelda took a deep breath. This was it—she was leaving Santa Cecilia for the first time.

            “Ouch!” Luciana cried, attempting to free her hand from her cousin’s grasp. “You’re hurting me!”

            “Oh, sorry!” Imelda looked down at her hands to see that they were indeed white-knuckled. She released her hold slightly—though not enough that Luciana could free herself. “Come on,” she said, jerking her head to the train car’s entrance. “We need to find seats.”

            The train car was mostly empty, and Imelda easily found seats for her and Luciana. She set their suitcase under the bench and sat down, checking her pocket to confirm for the twentieth time that their tickets were there.

            “How long is it to Guadalajara?” Luciana asked, sitting up in her seat so she could see the countryside whipping past them.

            “We’ll arrive late in the evening,” Imelda informed her. Also in her pocket was a train schedule, but she didn’t feel like extracting it at just this moment.

            Luciana kicked her legs back and forth, the heels of her shoes banging into their suitcase.

            “Stop that,” Imelda ordered.

            Luciana obeyed, and fidgeted in her seat. “When we arrive in Guadalajara, will Dolores take us to a fancy restaurant?” she wanted to know.

            Dolores was Luciana’s sister, and Imelda’s cousin. She had recently gotten married to Don Alejandro, the richest landowner in Santa Cecilia, who had then taken his blushing bride on a wedding tour all around Mexico. Don Alejandro a very nice man, free both with money and with compliments, but despite his genial nature and his impressive education, he was a dull conversationalist. Consequently, when Dolores had written that she and Don Alejandro would love to have some of the family visit them in Guadalajara, the last leg of their wedding tour, no one was very much surprised.

            It had quickly been resolved that the family could do very well without Dolores’s sisters Luciana and Gloria as well as cousin Imelda for a few weeks, and Gloria had delightedly accepted her sister’s invitation on behalf of the three of them. Twelve-year-old Luciana could experience some culture, and would be out of her parents’ hair for a few weeks. And it could only help Gloria and Imelda’s prospects to mix with Don Alejandro’s social set.

            However, just a few days before they were set to leave, Gloria had developed the stomach flu, and consequently, now Imelda and Luciana made the journey alone. Imelda hoped Gloria would have a speedy recovery, and would still be able to join them in Guadalajara. Imelda and Luciana had never been close; though they lived in the same casa, most of their interactions had been limited to Imelda reminding Luciana to do her chores and Luciana finding an excuse not to do them.

            And now she had to spend twelve hours with just her cousin for company. Imelda surveyed the train car, hoping to see a familiar face, but no one in this car was from Santa Cecilia. There was a dozing woman a few benches down, an elderly man reading a newspaper in the corner, and a large man across the aisle. Imelda watched as the large man lit a cigar. The overwhelming smell of tobacco soon filled the car, and combined with the motion of the train to make Imelda feel queasy.

            “Luciana, open the window, please,” Imelda said, because Luciana was closer to the window.

            Luciana, who was also looking a little green, quickly complied, but the fresh air didn’t do much to help.

            “Can we move to a different car to get away from that stink?” Luciana asked more loudly than she should have.

            Imelda grabbed their suitcase and quickly ushered her cousin to the next car, ignoring the offended look the cigar-smoker was sending them.

            Imelda and Luciana hopped to the last passenger car. This car was almost deserted. Two elderly women knit in the corner, and two men stood in the aisle. One of the men’s back was to Imelda, but the other man she quickly identified as the ticket taker. As she and Luciana slipped into a bench, she realized that the men in the aisle were in the middle of an argument.

            “Why is it so hard to get this through your thick skull?” the ticket taker demanded. “Look at this montón!” He waved his hand to the two suitcases and two guitar cases sitting on a bench. “You want to bring this with you, you have to pay!”

            “I already have paid!” the other man insisted. He waved something—Imelda would guess his ticket—in the ticket taker’s face. “I paid my fare—and here you are gouging me for more money! What a bandido you are! Other people said the train was run by a bunch of crooks looking for bribes—and here I am, on this train for two minutes, and already the shakedown!”

            “Señor,” the ticket taker snapped, “your fare entitles _you_ to a seat—but your _luggage,”_ he pointed again to the offending cases, _“_ is taking up _four_ seats! You either pay for the extra fares or your luggage goes to the luggage car! And then you can pick it up in Guadalajara!”

            “This guitar is my child!” the man cried, clutching one of the guitar cases to his chest. “You wouldn’t ask a father to throw his child in the luggage car!”

            “No,” the ticket taker admitted, “but I would ask the father to _pay his child’s fare!”_

            Luciana, who had been watching the argument with interest, starting laughing. Imelda shushed her, but not quickly enough. The man and the ticket taker looked to see who found their altercation so funny.

            And Imelda found that there was _one_ familiar face on the train after all. Standing in the aisle, looking just as surprised to see her as she was to see him, was Héctor.

            Luciana also recognized him. “Look, Imelda!” she cried, unabashed by the attention she was receiving. “It’s that músico! The one from Dolores’s party!”

            Luciana was referring to Cousin Dolores’s engagement party, where Héctor and his partner Ernesto had performed music. As for the _other_ things that had happened at the party—

            Imelda tried her best to keep her features expressionless. “Hola, señor,” she said stiffly.

            Héctor gave a half bow in her direction. “Hola,” he said slowly, eying her curiously. He was perhaps wondering why she had called him the formal “señor” when she knew very well what his name _was,_ and had in fact referred to him by name at several points during Dolores’s engagement party. She wouldn’t blame him for wondering that, because she was asking herself the same question. What was _wrong_ with her?

            The ticket taker was looking at her apprehensively. “My apologies for the disruption, señora,” he said to her. “This señor here,” he shot a dirty look at Héctor, “is being _difficult_ about his guitar cases. I’m sure you understand my point,” he nodded to Luciana. “You paid your fare for _your_ child.”

            Imelda regarded the ticket taker sourly. When she’d set off for the train this morning, she’d been conscious that she was to be met that evening by Dolores and her high society friends, and had therefore tried to dress as maturely as possible. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be mistaken for a matron fifteen years older than her actual age.

            And she especially didn’t want to be mistaken for one when Héctor was right there looking at her with that amused expression.

            She opened her mouth to reply, but Luciana spoke first.

            “Why does he need to pay extra for the guitars?” she demanded. She’d jumped onto the bench across from Imelda's, and was sitting backwards so she could stare at the ticket taker and Héctor.

            “ _Because,_ señorita,” the ticket taker said with polite exasperation, “his luggage is taking up extra seats that could be used by _paying_ customers.”

            “My eyesight must be worsening in my old age,” Imelda said drily, “because I do not see the _paying_ customers who are unable to sit because of the señor’s guitar cases.” She waved her hand to encompass the practically empty car.

            Luciana whipped her head around, her black curls bouncing from side to side. “I don’t see them, either!” she announced.

            “Exactly!” Héctor exclaimed, shooting Imelda a grateful expression that sent a warm feeling to her gut. “Who am I inconveniencing? There is no one here!” He winced and turned to the women knitting in the corner. “Except for you lovely señoras, of course.”

            The women smiled at him. One of them leaned over and whispered something in her companion’s ear.

            The ticket taker was also flushed, though for a different reason than Imelda. “It’s railway policy!” he shouted. “You want to pay one fare? Fine! Then your luggage goes into the luggage car!” He grabbed one of the guitar cases.

            Héctor wrested the guitar case from his grip. “I see the way you manhandle luggage!” he yelped. “This is a delicate instrument!” He placed the guitar case back on the bench, shook his shoulders, and adopted what he probably imagined was a charming smile. “Listen, Raoul,” he slipped an arm around the ticket taker’s shoulder. “Can I call you Raoul?”

            “No,” the ticket taker growled, shaking the arm off. “For one thing, my name’s Luís.”

            “Luís,” Héctor amended, returning his arm to the man’s shoulder, “I can see you’ve had a long, hard day—”

            “—it’s 9:30 in the morning,” Luís corrected.

            “You’re right, mi amigo,” Héctor agreed, nodding his head frantically. “It is just the beginning—and it’s your choice how you spend this day—a nice, calm day taking tickets from lovely travelers like the señorita over there,” he indicated Imelda with another bow, “or a frustrating, hectic day of taking tickets with yours truly,” he pointed his thumb at his own chest, “tailing you until we arrive in Guadalajara asking again and again: ‘ _Are my guitars okay?_ ’” He clutched Luís’s arm, “‘ _Are my guitars okay?’”_ He grabbed Luís’s lapels and smashed his face into his face, “‘ _ARE MY GUITARS OKAY?’”_ He released Luís and stepped away, leaning against a nearby bench with a self-satisfied smirk. “Some people enjoy me as a traveling companion because of my good looks and sparkling personality, but you,” he shrugged, “ah, you strike me as someone who likes his alone time.”

            Luís was glowering at Héctor with pure rage now. He pulled back an arm, his fingers balled into a fist, and—

            “Señor!” Imelda leapt from her seat and dashed forward before Luís threw the punch. Now standing between Luís and Héctor, she placed her hands on her hips and stared Luís down. “Are you going to brawl on the train like some,” she floundered for a word, “like some _mat_ _ón?”_ She held out her and Luciana’s tickets. “Take your fares, be on your way, and _get control of yourself!”_

            Luís looked from her scowl, to his fist, to Héctor’s awestruck face.

            He released his fist, took the tickets, and glared at Héctor. “You are lucky your amiga is here,” he spat before stalking out of the car, slamming the door.

            The train car was silent for a few seconds. The elderly woman had stopped clacking their needles, and even Luciana was speechless.

            “My thanks, señori—” Héctor started to say, but Imelda whirled on him before he could finish the thank you.

            “What is _wrong_ with you?” she demanded, advancing on him so that he fell onto his pile of luggage. “That man was just doing his job! Why wouldn’t you _pay the fare?”_

Héctor scrambled to his feet, and held one of his guitar cases in front of him. “You can’t pay what you don’t have,” he tried to explain.

            Imelda turned that over for a second. “You don’t have the money for an extra fare?” she demanded.

            Héctor nodded quickly and, to give credence to his words, turned his pockets inside out. “Not a single peso!” he insisted with something that sounded bizarrely like pride. “So you see, Luís there was just wasting his time! Me,” he thumped his chest self-importantly, “I am a starving artist!”

            “Well, what is the _starving artist_ planning on doing when he gets to Guadalajara?” demanded Imelda. “You won’t always have me around to keep you from getting punched!”

            “Ah, no es un problema,” Héctor waved his hand unconcernedly. “Ernesto and I will sleep in the train station tonight and hit the streets tomorrow, you know,” he mimed playing the guitar, “earn some _pasta_. We’ve found the tourists of Guadalajara are much freer with their money than the people of Santa Cecilia. Don’t worry about it.”

            “I wasn’t worried,” Imelda grumbled, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at him reproachfully. “I don’t care whether you live or starve.”

            “Of course not,” Héctor agreed. “Though,” he added smugly, “you do seem to care if I get punched in the face.”

            Imelda glowered at him. She wasn’t sure if she was angrier at _him_ for the mess he’d gotten himself into, or at _herself_ for getting him out of it.

            “Oh, come on, Imelda!” Héctor sighed in exasperation. “Think of the story you have now! And,” he clutched her hand, “think of the stories yet to come! We are young, we are beautiful, and we are going to Guadalajara!” He waved his hand at the air, and Imelda could practically see the Hospicio Cabanas.

            She let herself enjoy the warmth of his calloused fingers for a second before pulling her hand free. “You make it sound as if we’re traveling together,” she said stiffly, and started back to her seat. “It is only a coincidence that we are on the same train.”

            Héctor, however, just grabbed his luggage and followed her back to Luciana, who was following their conversation closely, and for _once_ seemed to think silence was the wisest course. “Not coincidence,” he corrected. “Fate!” He placed his luggage on the benches across the aisle, extracted one of his guitars, and sat next to Luciana, facing Imelda. “Fate is kind! I have two lovely companions and you,” he began picking a song he would later inform Imelda was called a _jota_ , “you have my lovely music.”

            Imelda _hated_ how her insides were melting, were bouncing, were dancing with the music. She hated that it was the prettiest thing she’d ever heard. Even more frustrating was the fact that his face was the prettiest thing she’d ever _seen,_ because she’d remembered not too long ago finding it totally unexceptional, even a little weak.

            “And what if I don’t want your company or your music?” Imelda demanded.

            He stopped mid-tremolo. Imelda immediately regretted her words.

            “Then I will make my apologies and leave,” he said, and began to get up.

            Imelda held out her hand. “No,” she said softly. “It is a shame to leave a song unfinished.”

            He sat back down and resumed his playing, looking at her warily.

            “And,” she added airily, “when you have finished, I believe Luciana has some requests.”

            Héctor’s smile was soft, and she was uncomfortably aware that once again she had communicated more than she had intended to. Although maybe it was worth it, if it meant she could continue listening to the music.

            Luciana had perked up, and at last judged it wise to speak again. “Oh, I have lots of requests!” she exclaimed. “ _I’m_ happy you’re with us, Héctor,” she added, “because I thought I would have to spend the entire train ride talking to _Imelda!”_ She caught Imelda’s glare. “What?” She shrugged and turned back Héctor. “And don’t worry that Imelda doesn’t like you, Héctor! She doesn’t like _anyone_.”

            “Ah,” Héctor nodded as his fingers raced across his guitar neck. “I am in good company, then?”

            “Oh, yes!” Luciana nodded enthusiastically. “Tía Estela says that Imelda will _never_ marry—”

            “Luciana!” Imelda snapped. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Héctor, but she could hear that he’d paused the song for a moment before resuming, the rhythm hurried and lopsided for a few measures.

            Luciana shrugged once more. “Sorry,” she said insincerely.

            “You don’t speak about matters like that in public,” Imelda tried to explain, so she could say something, anything, really, just so Luciana’s thoughtless recital of her mother’s complaints wouldn’t be the last thing ringing in everyone’s ears. “It’s very rude.”

            “I wasn’t _trying_ to be rude,” Luciana exclaimed defensively. “I thought Héctor might want to know that he doesn’t have much competition!”

            Now Héctor’s music had stopped entirely.

            “Dios mío…” Imelda murmured, fighting the urge to bury her head in her hands. As soon as she got a moment alone with Luciana, that girl was getting a good talking-to.

            She stole a look at Héctor to find that he looked just as embarrassed as she _felt_ , which was some relief. They sat there quietly for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, before Luciana broke the silence, asking Héctor if he was going to continue playing his song, or if she could make a request now.

            He finished the _jota,_ Luciana gave her request, and the request was promptly obeyed.

            Imelda forced herself to stare at the countryside, not allowing her eyes to slide forward. She was reminded of a story she’d heard once, of a monster who could freeze people if they so much as looked at it.

            Héctor, she admitted to herself, was no monster.

            Once Héctor finished the song, Luciana had four more requests. After that, she admitted she didn’t know any more songs. “Anyway,” she said with a yawn and a stretch of her arms, “I’m tired. Play something quietly for a while…” She then jumped up from the bench she shared with Héctor and plunked herself next to Imelda. Within three minutes of Héctor strumming a tender lullaby, Luciana’s head was in her cousin’s lap, her eyes were closed, and her breath was soft and even.

            Luciana, Imelda knew, was a champion sleeper: she drifted off easily, and woke for almost nothing. So Imelda was confident that she and Héctor could easily carry on a conversation without disturbing her.

            She stroked Luciana’s curls and looked up at Héctor. “Where is Ernesto?” she asked. She’d been wondering the question for some time, but she hadn’t wanted to bring him up when Luciana was listening for fear that, given Imelda’s most recent interaction with Ernesto, Luciana would hear something she shouldn’t.

            “He’s on the train somewhere,” Héctor said, reclining in his seat now that he no longer shared it with Luciana. “We have a system.”

            Imelda raised an eyebrow.

            Héctor elaborated. “Ernesto hides for the first leg of the trip,” he explained. “Then when the train stops in Santo Gregorio,” as the train would in about an hour, “he hops out, helps some rich woman load her luggage onto the train…the trick is to select a woman rich enough to have reserved her own compartment.” Rich travelers, rather than paying by the passenger, paid by the compartment, their travelling companions and attendants therefore included in their ticket price. “Ernesto has a knack for picking them. He makes pleasant conversation, they ask him to join their party, and he passes the train ride in comfort. Por lo tanto, two travelers,” he indicated himself and waved his strumming arm vaguely to indicate Ernesto, “only one ticket. Muy listo, no?”

            Imelda was frowning disapprovingly. “Muy falso, I would say.”

            That wiped a _little_ of the pride off Héctor’s face, but not all of it. “What can I say,” he recommenced strumming, “honesty and train tickets, they are expensive.” He grinned at her, and when she didn’t lose her frown, he looked at his fretboard instead. “When Ernesto and I become rich successes, we’ll make a large donation to the train line. You happy?”

            Imelda suspected that fame and fortune, if Héctor and Ernesto ever achieved them, would chase all thoughts about their past dishonesty away. Still, she let the subject pass. “Why are you going to Guadalajara at all,” she asked, “if you can’t even afford the tickets?”

            “Just what I told you before,” Héctor reminded her. “There is money to be made in Guadalajara.”

            “Then why don’t you live in Guadalajara all the time?” That Héctor and Ernesto were attempting to launch their music career from Santa Cecilia rather than a major city had never made sense to her.

            “Ah,” Héctor shrugged, “there is also money to be _spent_ in Guadalajara. Food and lodging,” he shook his head, “they are too expensive. And we cannot perform all the time—I must write the songs and Ernesto must practice. That is more cheaply done in Santa Cecilia. And,” he spoke carefully, “Santa Cecilia has fewer distractions.”

            Imelda stroked Luciana’s curls once more, and was grateful she was currently asleep.

            “For Ernesto,” Héctor amended quickly. “I find Santa Cecilia just distracting enough.”

            Imelda was _very_ grateful Luciana was asleep.

            Héctor cleared his throat. “So what brings you to Guadalajara?”

            Relieved by the change of conversation, Imelda explained their trip.

            “Ah,” Héctor nodded, “so you are like Ernesto—passing with the crema y nata.”

            “I suppose so,” she admitted, though she hated to be compared to Ernesto.

            “Then it is unlikely we will cross paths in Guadalajara,” Héctor said.

            “I suppose not…” Imelda said slowly. “But,” she added quickly, “Don Alejandro enjoys your guitar playing—maybe I could tell him and—”

            “I think we both know it is for the best that Ernesto and your cousin do not cross paths,” Héctor pointed out.

            The sight of her cousin Dolores kissing Ernesto on the night of her engagement party flashed before Imelda’s eyes. “Yes,” she sighed. “You’re right…” As much as she enjoyed Héctor’s company, it wasn’t worth the discomfort of Ernesto's company. Honestly, she wasn’t even sure if the enjoyment of Héctor’s company was worth the discomfort of _Héctor’s_ company.

            “Maybe,” Héctor said eventually, “when Ernesto and I come back to Santa Cecilia, I could…” Again, he stopped playing his guitar, and for a few seconds the only sounds were the rattle of the train, the click-clack of the women knitting, and the soft puffs of Luciana’s breathing, “stop by your casa. If I did, would you be home?”

            Imelda answered before she had a chance to talk herself out of giving him encouragement. “Sí, I would be home.” She lifted her eyes from Luciana’s curls to see a brilliant smile emblazoned across Héctor’s face. He didn’t say anything, but just broke into a quick, bouncy number.

            Imelda leaned back into her seat, closed her eyes, and unconsciously began to hum along with Héctor’s tune. At 9:17 this morning, she couldn’t wait to leave Santa Cecilia. Now only an hour later, she couldn’t wait to return there.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! If you made it this far, please let me know what you thought.


End file.
